April 1912
by Aerilon452
Summary: Helen had said she was on the Titanic, but was she alone? SPOILERS FOR NEXT TUESDAY


Summary: Helen was on the Titanic, but she wasn't there by shear happen stance and neither was John.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sanctuary or of John and Helen

Rating: M

**APRIL 1912:**

Helen had been walking along the first class passenger deck with Molly Brown when she stopped; she thought she had seen John. It stopped her dead in her tracks, stole the breath from her lungs, and allowed fear to seep into her mind. There was no way that he could be here, she had shot him, but had found no body due to his powers. Helen walked over to the railing and took hold so she could catch her breath. The cool sea air washed over her bringing the scent of salt, a cleansing scent, but she could smell him cloying the air around her. Helen gritted her teeth and fought back the feeling of warmth she had yet to vanquish when John came into her mind. The one thing she had regretted was the power John wielded over her body. He had only to give her a light caress and instantly her whole body was alive with sensation. A hand touched her shoulder and Helen jumped only to find that it was Molly who wore a concerned expression, "You ok honey?"

"It was the daftest thing, I suddenly felt ill," Helen lied and tried to sound convincing, but she knew the older woman didn't by it.

"Well, then we should get you inside." Molly grasped Helen's arm and led her inside.

**LATER THAT NIGHT:**

By night fall Helen had felt more herself and less like she was being watched. She sat with Molly Brown and few of the male passengers. Yet, Helen couldn't help scanning the crown for signs of John. He was here, she could feel it, and he was close. Her palms were sweating, so Helen had to wipe them down the length of her thighs. It astonished her that she could still keep up conversation with her heart racing and the shortness of breath she was feeling. A shiver worked over her, crawling up her spine, and she new what it meat. John had found her. Oh, how she hoped that he had been dead. Making apologies, Helen excused herself so she could head back to her state room. Before she was so much as through the crowd, an arm snaked around her waist pulling her close and a hand linked with hers. Helen was quickly turned to face John. He was dressed in the tux, his hair tied back with a white ribbon, and his scar stood out on his face; the scar she had given him John had schooled his features into gentle lines, but he couldn't change his eyes, his eyes held anger and something that Helen would have preferred not to ever see there again. John was looking at her with lust, passion. Against her wishes Helen felt her body start to warm, heating just for him as he moved her though the dancing couples, he was taking her towards the stairs.

It was by shear happen stance that he had come across Helen here. He hadn't gone out of his way to look for her, not after she had shot him; her intent had been to kill him that he knew for certain. For most of the evening he had stayed on the fringes of the crowd just watching her. She had never looked as beautiful as she looked in red. It made her look paler than he remembered, but she was still a sight, a vision of beauty for the eyes to feast upon. John knew she had been searching the crowd for him so he was careful to avoid detection until he was ready to move. Helen had afforded him the perfect moment when she got up to leave. He had to feel her against him again; it was need that burned like a bon fire in him, along his skin. As much as he tried to hate her, right now he couldn't muster one ounce of hate. No, right now all he felt was that familiar longing.

Helen couldn't believe the she was allowing him to lead her in a dance towards the stairs. Where was her mind? Obviously she had taken complete leave of her senses and Helen knew it, but she was still letting him lead her. Helen didn't want to follow him, to be near him, to feel the heat of his body warming hers even more, but this time her body was in control. Her body would never forget him; the feel of his skin had branded her his forever. They pulled apart as the reached the stairs. Helen took his hand in reflex, taking her time to catch her breath, let her mind take control again. Of all times for Helen's luck to run out, it had to be now, right now, with Jack the Ripper at her side.

**HELEN'S STATE ROOM:**

Helen unlocked her room, took a deep breath, and for the millionth time told herself to get her gun and shoot him. Yet, he still stood breathing behind her, his heart beating, and his hands resting on her waist. She knew what was going to happen and she wasn't going to stop it, even though reason and logic screamed at her. His grip on her waist grew tighter when he yanked her back against his chest. It wasn't fear she expected to feel, she felt excitement. How much of a monster could Helen like in her men? John was the worst monster of them all, and still Helen wanted him. She tilted her head to the side, instantly feeling his lips there, right at her pulse point. His teeth scraped over her skin, Helen reached back and fisted her hand in his hair giving him a sharp tug so they would step over the threshold of her room. She felt a rumble of pleasure in his chest as the door slammed shut. Helen found herself pinned to the now closed door with John ravishing her mouth. Her hands fisted in his hair, instead of pushing him away, Helen made sure his mouth stayed anchored to his. She should push him away, knew she should, but he felt so good against her. Helen missed the feeling of his body against hers.

John ran his hands down her hips and drew her dress up far enough that he could insert his thigh between her weakening knees. He could feel the tremors in her stomach and the quaking of her knees. Helen was close to buckling, losing all her common sense and he would be there to take her to the height of pleasure they had once shared. John wanted to feel that again, the anger aside, the hate, he wanted Helen again, needed her and he would have her. He held the underside of her thighs and lifted her so her knees could grip his waist. One last thought flitted through his mind, 'Why isn't she fighting?' By all rights Helen should be fighting him off with tooth and nail and yet she was kissing him, fisting her hands in his hair, and getting hotter for him. He could feel her feminine heat through the material of his trousers.

Helen knew she should stop, she should stop, but she couldn't. John had the way about him, he was a force and Helen was caught up in that force. 30 years was not enough time to make the heart grow cold to the one man who owned it, made it love him. She had tried but it was the one endeavor she had failed miserably at. Helen loved John; there was no getting around that fact. He was bad for her, bad for himself, the anger and the hate made him poison. But he was her poison of choice. Given half the chance he would destroy her world once again. Her nights had been cold, lonely, just this once she would have in her bed again. Helen withdrew her hands from his hair and used all her strength, and the solidness of his shoulders, to lever herself up higher and closer to him so she was leaning over him while their lips continued to dance and duel.

John moved them away from the door, all but carried her to the big four poster bed. How fitting that it should be done in fabrics of deep red and black, colors that so defined them and their time. Where he wanted to posses her, take her, his softer nature demanded that he be gentle; so much at odds as to whom he was now, the monster he was. Yet, when he had seen Helen walking along something changed, some switch was thrown in his mind, briefly changing him. He set her down and nipped at her lips. Pulling back to stand before her John removed his jacket, flinging it somewhere.

'Stop!' Helen's mind screamed at her, but her body drove on ahead. Reaching out for him she fisted her hands in his shirt and tugged him back down on top of her. His body fit, hip to hip, chest to chest. Helen shut her mind off and let her body lead, just this once, only this one time. Her lips met his, took control. She had to stop thinking, letting her hands undo the buttons of his shirt, pushed it off his shoulders, down his arms, until it was bunched at his waist; caught in the band of his slacks. Letting the body rule, Helen sank into John. This was her guilty pleasure, her sin she kept repeating, and she knew one day that she would learn to say no to him, today however was not that day. Her hands slid up, wove into his hair tugging his mouth closer before she reached for the white tie that secured all of his fantastic russet locks at the nape of his neck. While Helen kept her hands in his hair John removed all the combs that secured most of her golden mane. It cascaded over her shoulders to spill down the front of her body like living blanket.

There was something so celestial about Helen, her hair cascading over her shoulder, and the red of her gown glowing against her pale flesh. John took her hands and pulled her from the bed, turning her so she faced one of the posters. His nimble fingers worked free the small buttons of her dress, so many buttons. He felt her shudders, shivering, as he was trying to get the top of her dress off her shoulders. The desire for her flesh was more potent than the need for chaos and the need to inflict pain, the need to kill. John slid the material of her dress down, down over her shoulders, her arms, her waist so it pooled at her feet leaving her only clad in her bodice and under garments. Setting his lips to the back of her neck he busied his hands with the bodice.

When she had started this voyage, having a romantic encounter with a man who hated her was not at the top of Helen's list of things to happen to her today. But this John felt, acted like the john she knew from Oxford. This was her John, the John she still loved. As much as she tried not to think, thoughts of how he was acting invaded her mind, but his lips and hands were fast becoming all she was feeling, and she wanted more, wanted him. Always her body craved his; her flesh never forgot the touch of him. John was taking too long on removing her clothes, too much time that she feared they didn't have together, "John," She gasped.

"Oh Helen, my sweet Helen," John couldn't stop, wouldn't stop. She was here, she had let him into her room, and soon she would let him into her body. Time was running out for them, he could feel the rage becoming stronger and stronger, at best he thought he had and hour or at most two before he would feel hater be her again. By luck the bodice slid to the floor with the dress; only her light cotton under dress remained. Again his hands were at her waist, but they didn't stay there for long. Helen pivoted and pushed him to the bed. He watched her as she watched him while his hands went to the front closure of his pants. John mentally smiled when he saw Helen lick her lips. She was hungry and hungry for him. He could see it in her eyes, as was the same look John wore.

The last time she had seen John like this was twenty years ago and it appealed to her base nature, the need for release. He was that one carnal sin she felt compelled to repeat. Helen leaned over him and took his lips in a savage kiss while working his pants. Without warning John reversed them and pinned her hands above her head. Instinctively she bent her knees and brought him into the cradle of her body. His hands released her wrists and came to her hips to slide the material up to reveal her bare skin. She arched and felt him hard and ready, just as ready as she knew herself to be. The touch of his skin to hers, his bare skin, set her heart racing with equal part adrenaline and fear. Any minute he could turn back into the killer and she would be at his mercy, but also was the inherent danger of what she was now doing; allowing him entrance to her body while she knew the risk. It was the first touch, the first kiss that made her wonton and less inclined to listen to reason. Helen angled her hips and took him into her. He felt so good, so thick, and he filled her so completely. She felt no pain at his entrance, as if her body had been waiting for him, waiting o take him into their warm depths. Always her body yearned for him, though; she had done well over the twenty or so years trying to curb her need for him until this time. Helen arched her back and moaned as John slid even deeper, but not deep enough.

John gasped, levered himself over her and tried to gain control of his own body. But the overwhelming tightness of Helen had him quickly spiraling over the edge. He pumped, slid in and slid out so slow that he was sure they both would be tortured. Reflected in Helen's eyes he could see the faint sparks of love, but it swirled with hate and anger. She wasn't fighting him. Her hips hiked higher, allowing him a deeper penetration, a faster finish. Reeling back John pulled Helen with him and hauled her into his arms so he could pin her to the wall near the window. Her cheeks were flushed and her hands fisted in his hair tugging, adding just the right amount of pain. Bracing her back to the wall it afforded John the right angle to glide in and out of her body with power and ease while aiding in making Helen lose her mind. Every thrust brought him closer to spilling inside her. He could feel her inner muscles gripping his hard, thick length that the pleasure was near torture. Leaning foreword John set his teeth to her shoulder, gentle at first but as the orgasm built he had to resist the urge to scream. Sensing movement John felt Helen's teeth at the side of his neck. There was nothing gentle in the way she bit him, sank her teeth home in his skin and held on as her orgasm struck with force. Helen's inner muscles clamped down on him and made it near impossible for him to move, but with her juices coating him the short thrusts made smaller aftershock break out through her body and propelled him over the edge as well. John could feel himself emptying inside her as his legs buckled taking them to the floor.

Helen still had her teeth sunk deep into John's shoulder, so deep she could taste his blood and the blood she had given him binding him to her forever. As much as she wanted to her jaw was temporarily locked on his flesh keeping her teeth in his flesh and the blood flowing into her mouth, down her chin, and trickling down her neck. Her body shook as tiny after shocks wracked her body, all her muscles quivered while John wrapped his arms around her slender frame. She could still feel John so deep inside her, softening, but still inside her. Helen didn't know which she hated more; her weakness at being seduced by John, or her weakness at not making her shot count that night in White Chapel. To Helen at this moment, she didn't really care. A flicker of her John still lived and aided in hope that some day she could save him, fix him, and rid him of the anger that plagued him…

**PRESENT:**

**OIL RIG**

Helen treaded water and tried to beat back the blush that was rapidly creeping up on her. Of all the times she had to remember, it had to be when she and John had had sex on the Titanic a day before it sank. There had been no excuse for what she had done, and what it had done to her now. Even at this moment she felt her blood heat through her system keeping the cold of the water at bay.

"Magnus?"

"What Will," Helen wiped water off of her face and tried to hide the blush she knew was there by now.

"Are you getting cold?"

"No. Why?" But she knew why. She remembered her and John having sex.

"Just that your cheeks are red."

"I was remembering something," Helen whispered and turned away from her friend and co-worker. She swam away a little just enough to keep her blood moving as more thoughts bombarded her mind of that night, what inevitably happened, and how she felt more alone than the first time he had shown his other side.


End file.
